


Sunbeams Are Never Made Like Me

by 13chapters



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Aftermath of Torture, Gen, Implied Torture, PTSD
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-01-01
Updated: 2012-01-01
Packaged: 2017-11-05 08:25:30
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,706
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/404341
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/13chapters/pseuds/13chapters
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Dean is back from Hell and he and Sam are checking out a strange phenomenon that may or may not be supernatural in nature.  Everything should be back to normal – but it isn't.  Dean is acting strangely, and Sam is going to figure out what's going on, whatever it takes.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Sunbeams Are Never Made Like Me

**Author's Note:**

  * For [monicawoe](https://archiveofourown.org/users/monicawoe/gifts).



> **A/N:** This was written for 2011 [](http://spn-summergen.livejournal.com/profile)[**spn_summergen**](http://spn-summergen.livejournal.com/) and [](http://monicawoe.livejournal.com/profile)[**monicawoe**](http://monicawoe.livejournal.com/). The prompt was: _What did Dean go through in Hell, exactly? How did Alistair torture him, and what was Dean's breaking point? When he started to torture, how did he start? Did he use only physical torture, or did Hell give him the tools to carve into psyches as well?_ I considered writing something actually in Hell, but I'll be honest - I don't think I'm capable of writing something quite that dark. I hope [](http://monicawoe.livejournal.com/profile)[**monicawoe**](http://monicawoe.livejournal.com/) doesn't mind that I twisted the prompt somewhat.
> 
> NGL, writing this was a huge leap for me, and I would really like to thank [](http://probing-grays.livejournal.com/profile)[**probing_grays**](http://probing-grays.livejournal.com/) , who did an amazing job of betaing this for me; without her, this would be a very, very different fic. I also want to thank [](http://gabby-silang.livejournal.com/profile)[**gabby_silang**](http://gabby-silang.livejournal.com/) , who helped me come up with a central idea. And thanks to my twitter feed for the encouragement. ♥
> 
>  

The bed is too small for Sam. He rests his head on the thin motel pillow, lets his feet hang off the edge, and watches his brother.

Dean moves around the motel room with restlessness and unease that twists Sam's stomach. Sam considers saying something, teasing him about how it comes in decaf now or something, but he holds his tongue. Dean shakes out and refolds his clothes, packing them carefully into his duffel, then sits down and examines his knives for appropriate sharpness. He picks up the remote control and flops back onto his own bed and starts flipping through the  
channels.

They're in a motel in Orem, Utah, where a vengeful spirit was killing new residents of the house it had been killed in, and Sam is worried that he run has out of things to say to his brother.

Sam doesn't say anything when Dean pauses on CNN and starts compulsively flipping the battery cover on the remote open and closed. _Click click click click click._

"Scientists are looking into the strange situation in Santa Cruz, California," the anchor is explaining. "Twenty-three people have so far reported seeing the balls of light over the past few days."

There's a quick shot of a shaky and silent cell phone camera video of a ball of light floating over what appears to be a suburban backyard at night. As the ball moves off the frame in the upper left of the screen, another one enters from behind a tree on the right.

"Throughout history, people have reported seeing what is referred to as ball lightning, but there has never been a verified reporting of the phenomenon," the anchor continues. "Scientists investigating the phenomenon say that if this does prove to be ball lightning, it will be revolutionary in the field of atmospheric sciences."

"Huh. Kinda cool," Dean says, leaning back on the bed. The clicking stops.

"Think it's natural?" Sam asks. A hopefulness rises up inside of him. They don't have anything lined up and, more than any ghost or demon or monster, Sam fears this new silence that has grown between himself and Dean. He grasps onto the possibility of a new job. "Could be more our kind of thing. Balls of light? That actually sounds kind of familiar. I think I read about it one of Bobby's books, actually."

"Yeah?" Dean asks.

"Well, it's probably natural," Sam admits. "But it's possible."

Dean shrugs.

"You want to go check it out anyway? I wouldn't mind getting away from the snow."

Sam bites the inside of his mouth for a moment when he realizes where they would be going. He imagines Santa Cruz, a brief and windy drive over the hills from Palo Alto, trips to the beach with Jess and his friends. He looks at Dean, who's watching him steadily.

"Sure," he says, and the truth is that he feels almost as nonchalant as he sounds. It's been a long time. The pain of losing Jess is scarring over, in a place that's been cut up and half-healed half a dozen times since.

Dean is pretty much packed up already, so he watches quietly as Sam finishes packing up his stuff. It's still a little disconcerting to have company again. Good, of course - Sam had felt like half a person, angry and lost and unsure without Dean - but still. It's strange.

\----

Dean doesn't listen to music when he drives as much as he used to, and right now the car is silent. Sam calls Bobby to ask him about the balls of light phenomenon, but Bobby doesn't know anything more than Sam does, promises to look into it, and ends the conversation. The echo of his own voice saying goodbye hangs in the air for a long moment. Sam glances over at his brother.

Dean's jaw is clenched tight, Sam can tell, as he gazes out the straight line of highway like he's trying to stare it down.

"You want to trade?" Sam offers.

"What?" Dean asks. He doesn't even shift his gaze.

"Driving. Do you want to take a break? I could take over for awhile."

The truth is that Sam doesn't really like driving all that much. Dean glances over at him for the first time.

"What? No way, dude, it's only been a few hours. You can drive later, okay?"

"Okay," Sam agrees. "Just thought...just thought you might need a break." His voice trails off and he settles back, watching the west approach.

\----

There are a lot of different ways to navigate the freeways and bridges around the San Francisco Bay, and the way Dean navigates them without needing to pull over to check a map - or cross a bridge - impresses Sam.

"You really did come check up on me when I was in college, didn't you?" Sam asks.

"Course I did," Dean tells him. "I know this area like the back of your hand. Took a little bit of practice to figure out how to drive around without hitting a bridge, though. I am not going to be on a bridge when the Big One hits, Sammy."

Sam snorts. "I lived in California for three years and never felt a single earthquake, Dean."

"They're just waiting for me to be on a bridge," Dean says darkly. "Then...BAM."

"You remember the big earthquake they had in San Francisco in 1989?" Sam asks.

"Kinda," Dean says. "Some bridge collapsed, right?"

"Yeah. The epicenter to that quake was right outside Santa Cruz," Sam tells him cheerfully. "A lot of the downtown area was totally destroyed."

"Remind me why we're going there again?" Dean asks. Sam can see him tighten his grip on the wheel and he laughs.

The treacherous curves of Highway 17 whiz by way too fast, and Sam feels lighter than he has in what feels like forever. The memory of traveling that same road with Jess and their friends feels like it belongs to another person.

He wonders what Ruby's doing.

\----

Dean finds a motel on the outskirts of town. They're only a few blocks away from the beach and Sam can smell the salt on the breeze as it goes whipping by rustling the American and California flags flying on the flagpole. It's not exactly warm, but it doesn't compare with the icy weather back in Utah.

The guy behind the desk has can't be more than twenty years old. He has floppy blond hair and wide blue eyes suspiciously tinged with red.

"Uh, two queens?" Dean asks when the guy just watches them silently.

"Oh!" the guy says, like he's surprised they actually want a room. "Uh, okay, cool."

Dean hands over a credit card and leans against a wall, watching the kid - obviously stoned out of his mind - fumble with the credit card scanner. Sam stands in the middle of the room, his hands jammed into his pockets, feeling awkward and too big for the small room. Pretty much how he feels a lot of the time.

"Dude," Dean says, almost breathlessly, and suddenly any awkwardness between them is gone. They're on a job, and they're professionals. "You know those giant balls of light things? That's around here, right? I totally saw those on the news."

"Oh yeah," the kid says, looking up from the machine for a second. "Yeah, that's around here. My friend India saw them a few days ago. Fucked up."

"Really?" Sam asks. "That's so awesome."

"Awesome," Dean agrees, and he actually sounds pretty stoned himself.

"So, dude," Sam says, and he cringes at how fake he sounds "Do you know where your friend India is? Because we would really like to hear her story. We heard about the lights on TV but we would really like to hear about it, you know, first-hand."

The guy leans back in his office chair and swivels around once a couple times. Dean glances over at Sam, who rolls his eyes. The left side of Dean's mouth tugs up into half a smile.

"Sure," the kid finally says. "I'm pretty sure she's at work right now, but give me your number, I'll tell her to call you, okay?"

"Okay," Dean says, sounding more upbeat than Sam is pretty sure he feels.

They have a few hours to kill while waiting to see if India is actually going to call them or not, and Sam knows that they should probably be more proactive, but he's _tired_. And _starving_. He plops down on a bed as soon as they get to the room and stretches his legs out. It feels fucking fantastic.

"Hey, man, I'm going to go out and get some food," Dean tells him, like he's reading Sam's mind. "You want anything in particular?"

Sam shakes his head. "Anything," he says.

"Be right back," Dean says, rattling the car keys as he leaves. A minute later, Sam hears the rumble of the Impala just before he falls asleep.

When he wakes up, there's a feeling of disorientation that's so familiar it's almost comforting. Sam presses his head back against the pillow and waits for the memory of where he is to come floating up to the top of his consciousness. It's the hunger that finally reminds him.

_Santa Cruz_ , he thinks. _Dean went for food._ Judging by the length of the shadows on the wall, it's now well into the afternoon. Sam lifts his head and looks around, but there's no obvious evidence of food - or, indeed, of Dean. His stomach rumbles, but Sam ignores his hunger as a tingle of fear runs up his spine. Dean can pretend he's normal, just the same as he was before Hell, but Sam knows him better than anyone.

He's fumbling with his cell phone - the screen says it's 4:38 - panic rising at the back of his throat, when Sam hears the keycard sliding in the slot.

Dean looks like death warmed-over. Barely. His skin is pale, his eyes reddened. His face is damp with sweat.

"What the hell happened to you?" Sam demands, and immediately regrets the angry tone of his words.

Dean doesn't say anything.

"Dean?" Sam asks. "Are you okay?"

"I'm...yeah, I'm fine," Dean tells him. He sits heavily on his bed.

He doesn't look fine. He looks like complete shit, actually. Sam is trying to decide on whether to leave him alone or ask him where the hell he's _been_ and also what happened to lunch?

Dean pulls it out of his jacket pocket and stares at it for a moment, letting it ring a couple more times before a look of recognition crosses his face and he answers.

"Hello?" he answers. "Oh, hey. Thanks for getting back to us. Yeah, it's me and my brother. Sure. Yeah, we'd love get talk to you, we're really curious about this whole...uh, okay, what's the address?" Dean's voice gains strength and confidence as he speaks, like he's waking up from a dream. By the time he gestures at Sam for a pen and something to write with, he almost looks normal.

"We'll be there in ten minutes, okay?" he says. "See you then." He hangs up and meets Sam's eyes. Sam chews on his bottom lip to stop himself from saying anything.

"That was India. She says she'll meet us." Dean says. He glances up at Sam like everything's perfectly normal, like he hadn't just staggered into the room looking like hell after disappearing for hours.

Fifteen minutes later - it takes a while to find a place to park - they're sitting in a restaurant that claims to be a California fusion of Asian and Latin American cuisine. Dean is staring at the menu like he's never seen one before.

"It doesn't matter what you get, everything here is amazing," the girl sitting across the table says. India is white, her dark blonde hair in tidy dreadlocks. Her right eyebrow and septum are both pierced with tiny silver hoops, and she's wearing a dress made out of what appears to be a burlap sack. "They can make anything vegan, by the way. I'm not a vegan, though, just a vegetarian." She leans forward, like she's about to share a big secret. "I just love cheese too much to give it up."

"Um, I'm not hungry," Dean says. He flashes India a suspiciously big smile before closing the menu and setting it down by his plate. Sam eyes him, worried. Dean might claim that diner junk food is the only cuisine worth eating, but Sam knows for a fact that Dean will eat pretty much anything, no matter how frou frou it is. Dean still looks pale, and his hand shakes slightly as he picks up his glass of water.

Sam clears his throat.

"So, India, can you tell us about the balls of light you saw? My brother and I heard about it on the news and it sounds, uh, really amazing."

India's own face lights up.

"I was at the beach, at a bonfire, with some friends. We were high, but not like, on anything more than weed, right? So I wasn't hallucinating or anything. And these...lights, just _appeared_ out of nowhere! It was so fucking amazing." She sighs and shakes her head slowly, her eyes closed in memory.

"How many did you see?" Dean asks. "Was there a sound?"

"There were like...ten or twelve, maybe?" she says. "And I didn't hear anything, but the ocean was right there, and it's pretty loud. Plus, everyone was talking and making a lot of noise."

"How long did they last?" Sam asks.

"It seemed like _forever_ ," she says. "But...probably twenty minutes or a half an hour?"

"And then they just disappeared?" Dean asks.

"No, they just sort of...faded away."

"Do you have any theories on what it was?" Sam asks.

"Oh, I know what it was," India says confidently. "It was a message from the goddess."

Dean raises his eyebrows. "Any goddess in particular?"

"She goes by many different names," India tells him. "But the important thing to know is that she is the mother of us all. She's in the earth and the ocean. She loves us, and that is why she sent the light, to remind us to care for her and for each other."

"Oh," Dean says. He forces a big smile onto his face. "That's very interesting. Isn't it interesting, Sam?"

"Fascinating," Sam agrees.

The waiter appears. His mohawk is dyed bright pink and he's wearing a kilt.

"Are you ready to order?" he asks. "Today's special is Brazilian-barbecue style seitan sushi rolls with hummus and a side of dahl, by the way. It's _spectacular_."

\----

>   
> _The heat is the first thing he feels._   
> 

>   
> _-It's like an old friend, Dean, isn't it?_   
> 

>   
> _No._   
> 

>   
> _-Oh, Dean, I know you missed it. I know you missed me. We were so close, for so long. I knew you better than anyone._   
> 

>   
> _There are knives. There are always knives._   
> 

>   
> _-You didn't actually think you could get away from me that easily, did you, Dean? Not when I care so much about you? Don't worry, I could never abandon you._   
> 

\-----

Sam wakes up early the next morning, hours before the alarm clock on his phone is supposed to go off. It's still gray dawn outside and he's confused for a moment about why he's awake, until he hears the click of typing.

Dean is sitting at the small table next to the TV, looking intently at something on the computer. He's fully dressed in fresh clothes.

"Dean?" he asks, his voice muffled with sleep. "What are you doing?"

"Research, Sammy." Dean tries to sound jovial, but when he looks over at Sam with a cheerful smile, all Sam can see is the redness of his eyes and the almost greenish cast to his skin.

Sam's had enough.

"Dean," he says, as gently as he can. He tries and fails to hide the frustration and worry he feels. "You can tell me about it."

His brother's face hardens. At least he doesn't pretend not to know what they're talking about.

"Nothing to tell, Sammy. I'm fine. By the way, there was another sighting of the light ball things last night. This time they were right downtown - hundreds of people saw them."

"You're _not_ fine," Sam insists. The case is interesting, but for all they still know, there's nothing supernatural about it, and Sam has more important things on his mind at any rate. "Dean, I know you say you don't remember anything-"

"Sam." Dean interrupts him with a warning in his voice. "Do you want to hear what I found or not?"

Sam sighs.

"Tell me."

\----

"Is this a college or a summer camp?" Dean grumbles. A couple of deer munch on the leaves of a tree on the opposite side of a ravine. "Where the hell are we going?"

Sam scratches his head.

"I think we're going in the right direction," he says, kind of doubtfully. This campus is nothing like Stanford's, with its manicured lawns and neo-Spanish colonial architecture. Sam had been to Santa Cruz to visit the Boardwalk and the beach on a number of occasions back when he'd been in Palo Alto, but he'd never visited the local campus of the University of California, set back from the town on a redwood forest covered hill. It does actually pretty closely resemble a summer camp - albeit one with unusually adult campers.

The path is paved, though, so Sam is pretty sure they're still on campus and haven't wandered off into the wilderness. Dean grumbles about not having planned on going on a hike when he woke up that morning but after a few minutes, a collection of modern building appear in a clearing. There is no parking lot around, and Sam feels a moment of vindication about insisting they park and walk and then feels a pang of guilt for being glad Dean was wrong about something.

"This way," Sam says, following the signs into a gleaming white building. The lecture hall is the first room on the left, and although they're a little early, the room is already half-full. Most of the audience appears to be too old to be undergrads, and Sam assumes they're grad students or professors. Sam eyes them thoughtfully as the department chair introduces the speaker, a professor of the history of science. He isn't envious, really, he doesn't even want to go back to school, wouldn't do it if he could. But it's hard not to wonder about what could have been.

Beside him, Dean sits surprisingly quietly. Dean isn't stupid, far from it, and Sam knows it, but he was also never particularly interested in school, and the fact that he's voluntarily sitting through a lecture, without even twitching with boredom as the lecturer, a small plump gray-haired woman in glasses, launches into a talk on how scientific weather phenomena have been viewed in different cultures over the years.

The lecture is mostly pretty academic. The speaker quotes from philosophers that Sam's never heard of, but which make everyone else titter in rarefied amusement.

"I had no idea that ghost stories about weather could be so boring," Dean whispers.

There's an instinctive urge to defend academia and its usefulness, but really, Sam kind of has to agree.

"Welcome to college," he says dryly.

There's a lot of things Dean could say in response to that, and for a moment, Sam wishes he hadn't left him such an easy opening, but Dean doesn't respond, just snorts and nods. Sam opens his mouth to add something self-deprecating, but down at the center of the room, the lecturer drops her formal tone and for the first time, Sam thinks that maybe there was a point in trekking up this hill in the first place.

"This lecture has been on the program for quite a while," she says with a smile, "but in light of the interesting events here in town over the past couple weeks, I've decided to talk a little bit especially on lightning and how people have seen it around the world. You know, lightning is often seen as a force of judgment. It's common in the West to talk about a bolt of lightning being sent down to punish sinners. This is part of the Christian ethos, but it seems to be borrowed from the Roman and Greek mythologies.

But the lightning isn't necessarily always considered to be a bad thing. The Philippine version of St. Elmo's Fire, known as _santelmo_ , is thought to be a message from God. And the Thunderbird, which is known in a number of Native American cosmological systems, can send lightning both to punish and to protect, by killing off one's enemies.

It's important to consider that the end result of lightning is fire, and while fire is generally considered to be a dangerous force, there is a reason we talk about holy fire, and cleansing fire. Forests need to burn periodically in order to remain healthy. Fire purifies, and fire sterilizes. These are ideas that have multiple sides to them."

Out of the corner of his eye, Sam watches his brother. Dean is frozen, his eyes forward. He doesn't even seem to be breathing. Sam thinks about reaching out and touching him, but he's pretty sure that Dean wouldn't welcome the touch.

He looks... _scared_.

"Does anyone have questions?"

The first few questions are long and rambling, the speakers obviously enjoying the sound of their own voice. Sam doesn't pay much attention to either the questions or their answers. Dean looks lost in thought.

The lecturer calls on a man - a boy, really, definitely an undergrad, although Sam would suspect him of being a high school student if it weren't for the UCSC hoodie.

"So, um, I saw the lights, in my friend's backyard? I was wondering what you thought they were."

The lecturer pauses, looking taken aback that someone has asked such a straightforward question.

"Well, I think they're probably St. Elmo's Fire," she says. "It's a well-documented phenomenon."

The guy shakes his head.

"I looked that up, it doesn't sound at all like what I saw," he says.

"As I said, I'm not a scientist, but I'm not sure that the Wikipedia entry on St. Elmo's Fire is really all that in-depth."

There's gentle laughter from the audience, and the guy slumps back in his chair. Sam can't see his face, but he'd be willing to bet his face is red with embarrassment.

The talk breaks up after that, and Dean leans over to Sam.

"I'm going to go talk to that guy. You go talk to the professor," he whispers, before stretching out and pulling himself to his feet.

"What? I don't want to talk to the professor!" Sam protests quietly. "Why don't you talk to the professor?"

Dean gives him a look.

"I'll see you in twenty, okay?" Without waiting for Sam's answer, Dean turns heel and jogs down down the steps after their witness.

Sam grumpily agrees and tries to summon up memories from his own college experience as he makes his way down the stairs of the lecture hall. He totally read Foucault's _Discipline and Punish_ once. Could that help? Probably not. Oh, wait, he also read _The Golden Bough_. Or at least part of it. That would probably be helpful if he could remember any of it.

An itch rolls up his spine and Sam realizes that it's been at least two weeks since he last saw Ruby. He tries to suppress a shiver and fails.

The professor is laughing, surrounded by a gaggle of other academics and Sam tries to look innocent as he stands awkwardly at the edge of the circle, listening to them chat and trying to think of something intelligent to say. After a moment, he realizes that he has a genuine question, even if it's not particularly intelligent.

"Excuse me, professor," he says during a lull in the conversation.

She looks surprised.

"Nancy," she says. "Are you in HisCon?"

"Oh, I'm Sam," he says. Not sure what she's talking about, he plows forward. "Uhh...I just live in town, actually. I was interested in what you said about how some people believe that the balls of light could be messages from God?"

She nods. "Yes, in the Philippines."

"What do you think the message would be?"

She looks puzzled.

"How do you mean?" she asks.

"Well, God isn't always nice, right? Could it be...I don't know, a warning?"

The professor looks thoughtful.

"Well, to be honest I'm not an expert on Philippine mythology," she says. "But as far as I know, the _santelmo_ is considered to be positive phenomenon, an example of God showing his existence to humans. But you're right, God is not always portrayed as being unconditionally positive, and God definitely warns and threatens humans on a number of occasions, so I suppose you're right - the _santelmo_ could possibly be a warning."

Sam swallows.

"Thanks, Nancy," he says.

He wanders outside and stands in what sunlight makes its way through the filter of the redwood trees. Dean isn't around, but it's only been fifteen minutes.

_Not everything is about you, dumbass,_ he tells himself. A deer makes its way across the path.

Ten minutes later, Sam begins to wonder what Dean and the witness could be talking about for so long.

Twenty minutes after that, Sam is getting really angry, and maybe a little worried. It extremely tempting to go looking for Dean, but leaving the meeting spot is never a good idea.

Ten minutes after that, Sam is about to say "fuck it" to good ideas because _where the fuck is Dean?_ when he spots his brother.

On a footpath between two of the buildings, Dean is slowly walking toward Sam. Even from fifty feet away, Sam can see that Dean's face is unusually pale, and he's walking slowly, like an old man with an arthritic limp.

"What the hell happened to you?" Sam yells.

Dean flinches.

"Fuck," Sam says. He hates himself, and for a moment, he doesn't even want to deal with Dean and his issues.

And then he hates himself even more.

"Sam," Dean says, and then stops.

"Never mind," Sam says, suddenly and painfully tired. "Let's go."

They walk back to the car in silence.

\----

>   
> _-You thought you were free? You'll never be free._   
> 

>   
> _-You can't hurt me anymore._   
> 

>   
> _In Hell, there is no sound but the crackling of fire, but it doesn't matter._   
> 

>   
> _-I will always be able to hurt you. You love me too much to be able to forget, my sweet. I will always be in your heart._   
> 

\----

They're halfway back to the motel, stopped at a red light, when it occurs to Sam to ask what the witness had to say.

"Oh," Dean says. "He didn't really know anything that he hadn't already said."

"Then where were you?" Sam asks. He tries to make his voice as calm as possible, but he can hear the tension and worry in his own voice.

Dean's hands on the wheel shake as he makes a right turn.

"Do you want me to drive?" Sam asks.

"No," Dean tells him.

"Dean, I'm really worried about-"

"No," Dean repeats.

"You are really freaking me out, Dean, I can't work with you when you're like this, disappearing and..."

"I'm fine," Dean says.

Sam huffs out a bitter laugh.

"You are nowhere near fine, Dean, and you won't tell me what's going on. How can I help you if I don't know what's happening?"

"Did you ever think that maybe I didn't want your help?" It's the most Dean's said in half an hour and the venom in his voice shocks Sam into silence.

"Who else is going to help you?" Sam asks after a moment.

"Shut up," Dean says. He doesn't lift his eyes from the road. "Just shut the fuck up, okay, Sammy?"

"Fine," Sam spits out. _Fuck you anyway, Dean,_ he thinks, but doesn't say.

When they get back to the motel, Dean only sticks around long enough to slam the car keys down on the desk before he's heading back toward the door.

"Where are you going?" Sam asks.

"To a bar. Is that okay? Or do you want to _talk about it?_ " Dean sneers.

"Dean, Dean, wait! Look, I'm sorry, I'm just-"

The door slams shut.

"-worried about you," Sam finishes in the empty room. His words hang in the air, echoing in his ears.

"Shit," he whispers, just to hear something else. "Fuck. _Motherfucker._ "

The gratuitous swearing feels strangely good. Sam leans back on his bed and fumbles for the remote control. The motel has cable and there are a couple hundred channels, but Sam finds himself watching an old episode of Dragnet on a local station. He's halfheartedly following the adventures of Joe Friday when there's a knock on the door.

"How are you such an idiot?" Ruby demands, pushing past Sam into the hotel room.

How someone more than a foot shorter than Sam always manages to appear to be looking down at him is possibly something worth investigating in itself.

His skin suddenly feels tight and itchy. He can smell her.

"Where have you even been?" Sam asks her.

"I'm _busy_ , Sam," she tells him disdainfully. "You should be grateful I've interrupted my important plans to come talk to you."

"Gee, thanks," Sam says dryly. "I'm sure you have important demon business to take care of, sorry about that."

"Do you want my help rescuing Dean from Hell or not, Sam?"

Sam freezes.

"What are you talking about?" Sam asks her. "Dean isn't in Hell. An angel pulled him out, remember?"

Ruby rolls her eyes.

"Hell isn't that easy to brush off, Sammy. Trust me, I know."

Sam frowns at her. He's really not in the mood for games.

"What are you saying, Ruby?"

"What I'm saying is that there's still a connection between Dean and Hell. Hell has dug itself so deeply into his mind that it won't let go. Dean's body may be up here, but his mind, his thoughts? They still have a claim on him, and they're not going to give up on it easily. At least, not without a little nudge."

"Provided by you, of course."

She smiles.

"Of course. I only want to help you, Sam. Where's Dean?"

"He's at...some bar, I guess." Sam is pretty sure he knows which one; there was one just around the corner that looked like the kind of place Dean might be into.

"Figures. I need to see him for this to work," she tells him. "Let's go."

Sam imagines showing up at a bar with Ruby in tow and Dean's probable reaction.

"Uh, you stay here, okay? I'll go get him."

"Fine," she says, plopping down onto Dean's bed. "Don't take too long."

\----

Sam leaves Ruby in the motel room, vaguely hopeful that leaving her alone with his stuff isn't a bad idea. He's not more than ten feet out of the room when his phone rings. It's Bobby, whose research has revealed findings similar to what Sam already knows - namely, that the phenomenon looks like the _santelmo_ , and the _santelmo_ is a message from heaven. Sam does his best to sound appreciative for Bobby's work, but it's hard, thinking of Dean and Ruby.

It's a short walk to the bar and Sam was right, Dean is there. He's sitting at the bar, one foot flat on the floor as the other presses against the base of the stool. He's chatting with the bartender, but Sam can see his body language as he draws near - Dean's just being polite, not interested in flirting.

Dean hasn't noticed him yet in the dark, loud bar, and Sam takes a moment to breath deeply, to help himself project a calmness that he doesn't feel.

The seat next to Dean is empty. Sam slides over, rests his elbows on the bar.

"What do you want?" Dean asks. Even in the loud bar, Sam hears him clearly.

"To apologize."

Dean lifts his head to look at Sam for the first time.

"What do you have to apologize for?" he asks.

"Dean, you can tell me the truth, you know. Ruby showed up, told me what's happening to you."

His brother's expression freezes.

"What did she say?" Dean asks.

"That you...have some kind of connection to Hell."

Dean laughs bitterly.

"Good old Ruby. She would know what's going on in Hell, wouldn't she?"

"What's it like?" Sam asks, before he can stop himself. And once the words are out, it's a relief. It's a topic they dance around, never discuss, but Sam can't help himself. He wants to know.

Dean tilts his head. The green neon of a sign above him illuminates one side of his face and casts the other in shadow. For a moment, Sam is pretty sure Dean is going to tell him to shut the fuck up or walk away or maybe punch him. Then he begins to speak, his voice low and gravely and hard to hear under the music on the jukebox.

"All my life, Sammy, I've tried to do the right thing. I took care of you, I took care of dad. I try to make the world a better place. If I can have a little fun while I do it, hey, good for me. But in Hell, Sam," - he takes another drink from his beer - "In Hell I wasn't just bad. I was evil, Sam. I did it. I was worse than anything I've ever hunted up here. I hurt people, and I _liked_ it. I wanted it.

And when I came back, I thought, _I can fix it, I can be a good person again_ , but Sam, I don't know if I can. I try and I try but I can still remember how good it felt to cut someone open, to hear them scream. I want to tear my own skin off, Sam, I want to rip my hair out of my head."

"Dean, Dean, that wasn't you," Sam tells him, unsure of what to do with this rush of words. "They tortured you, they made you do it."

"They made me do it, but they didn't made me _like_ it."

Sam is quiet for a moment.

"And now...it's like I turn a corner and I'm back. I'm back there, and I'm trying to get over it, and trying to be _me_ again and I don't think that can ever happen, Sam, not if Hell can hold onto me like this." Dean's face crumples and for a second Sam thinks he's going to cry, but he doesn't.

"Ruby can help," Sam says. "She says she can help you."

Dean's entire expression shuts down.

"No, Sam...we can't do this anymore. No help from demons. No more demons."

"She says-"

"Demons _lie_ , Sam," Dean interrupts, his voice low and angry. "I can't believe you're listening to her. I can't listen to you try to tell me to believe a demon. Do you even know what-"

He snaps his mouth shut abruptly, like he's trying to prevent the words from escaping. Sam growls with frustration.

"Screw you, Dean," he hisses. "Screw you for hiding and lying and fuck you for refusing to listen to the only person who's offered to help us."

"Screw _you_ , Sam," Dean says. "I don't have to listen to your bullshit."

He drops a few bills on the counter and strides toward the exit, leaving Sam sitting alone.

Sam breathes deeply, trying to calm down, to push down the frustration and hurt, and considers ordering a drink.

He lasts about sixty seconds before he gives up and follows his brother, pushing his way through the crowd of patrons at the bar. He gave Dean too much time, he figures dully. Who knows where he'll be by now?

But finding Dean turns to be surprisingly easy - he's only about thirty feet from the entrance to the bar, where the street meets a small alleyway. Dean is leaning against the stucco wall of some store, his face in profile as he watches the alley.

Sam approaches him slowly, like he would a skittish animal, but Dean doesn't even seem to notice. He seems frozen to the spot, his expression - surprise and fear - unchanging. It isn't until Sam is only a few feet away that he realizes that the light illuminating Dean's face in the early dark of the winter sky is unusually bright for any kind of lighting you'd expect to come out of an alley.

"Dean, what-" The words stick in his throat as he reaches Dean and turns to stand by him, shoulder to shoulder.

In the narrow space between the buildings, above the Dumpsters and mysterious liquids in the gutters, are three globes of white light.

There is no noise. They don't move. The light holds steady without pulsing. They simply hang in the air, like they're being held there by an invisible string. Sam doesn't realize he's holding his breath until he feels his lungs burning. Exhaling feels like breaking a spell, but the globes don't move, so Sam risks moving his head and glancing over at Dean.

His brother is trembling. The light is bright enough that Sam can see the unshed tears in his brother's eyes. Dean blinks hard, several times. Sam turns back to the lights, feeling abashed and ashamed and awed and not a little afraid.

Later, Sam can never say how long the lights last. Eventually - it takes a while to be sure it's not his imagination - Sam realizes that they're decreasing in size, shrinking away to nothing.

When the last light has blinked away, Sam and Dean stand for a moment in the dark alley.

"Dean," Sam begins, but Dean cuts him off with a look.

"It's okay, Sam," he says. "Let's just go, okay?"

Sam's legs are longer than Dean's, but he finds himself struggling to keep up with his brother, whose steps seem lighter than they've been in a long time. Sam follows him, worrying at the inside of his cheek.

When they reach the motel, Ruby is gone.

\-----

"It's been three days since the last known sighting of the mysterious balls of light in Santa Cruz, and scientists remain unclear on precisely what caused phenomenon, or if it's even over." The anchorwoman on the local news is doing a good job of projecting how strange she thinks this is, but Sam doesn't want to hear it.

He's barely let Dean out of his sight in the past three days and he's pretty sure that his brother is being truthful when he says that the connection between Hell and himself seems to be gone. Although he still keeps watch on the closed door when his brother's in the bathroom. He knows that Dean has been in the shower for ten minutes, for example, and he'll find an excuse to knock on the door when it hits twenty minutes.

Dean emerges after fifteen.

"Bobby called when you were in the shower," Sam says as Dean rubs a towel through his hair. "He's got word on a violent vengeful spirit in New Mexico. You want to go check it out?"

Dean grunts noncommittally.

"I think we're done here," Sam says after a moment.

Dean shrugs again. He sits down on his bed.

"Not that we did much here anyway," Sam says, getting annoyed. He doesn't want to talk to himself all the way to Santa Fe.

Dean looks up at him, one eyebrow raised.

"You really think that?" he asks.

"We don't even know for sure that the lights were supernatural, Dean," Sam points out.

"You ready to go to New Mexico?" Dean asks. "It's gonna be a long drive."

Sam nods and grabs his duffel.

Dean's at the door, his hand on the knob, when Sam reaches out and touches his shoulder.

"I'm glad you're back," Sam tells him. "But Dean...you're scaring me here, okay?"

"I'm fine," Dean tells him. "No need to worry."

The sound of the door slamming behind Sam has a hollow echo to it.


End file.
